


Infinite

by wynnebat



Series: Hell is Other People [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, Dark Harry Potter, Dimension Travel, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, POV Voldemort (Harry Potter), Pre-Slash, Rituals, Summoned Hero, lowkey a dementor Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 13:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16854898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: Lord Voldemort summons the Master of Death. For good reason, he expects the Master to be another version of himself.





	Infinite

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by anonymous.

Voldemort’s chant ends as he walks around the cauldron for the seventh time. It’s timed to perfection, the exact rhythm only practiced once. He’s nothing if not a prodigy of magic, and this ritual cannot be impossible, for he is only calling upon another version of himself. He’s throwing his wand into the deep, dark space between worlds and searching for a version of himself who has managed to do what he hasn’t: become the Master of Death. He calls for his soul, using one of his own horcruxes as a tether, and he uses the Elder Wand as another point of contact. The version of himself that he calls will know what they are, but he will hardly need them; it is Voldemort who has been reduced to searching for answers from other worlds, unable to find the remaining two hallows in this one.

A successful Voldemort most likely would have no need to attempt to take over the operations of his alternate self, but just in case, Voldemort has his Death Eaters clustered around Stonehenge. On his word, they will attack, as will Voldemort.

Black smoke lifts from the cauldron, binding together to become a snake that rests on the rim of the cauldron. When it settles, it has no end nor beginning. Voldemort takes this as a sign. His ritual has succeeded; he has brought forth his other self. The figure that rises from the depths of the cauldron is dressed in dark robes with its hood up over its face and shadows leaving its features only to be guessed at. In a moment of irony, Voldemort had chosen the very cauldron he rose from a few years ago, with the aid of an ancient ritual and parts from his father, follower, and enemy. Now, he doesn’t bow, because Lord Voldemort bows to no one, not even a more successful version of himself.

He simply says, “Greetings, Lord Voldemort.”

The figure tilts its head without giving a hint of what is under the hood. There is amusement in his voice as he says, “Lord Voldemort. Why am I here?” It’s not a voice Voldemort recognizes as his own, but there are many differences between worlds.

“I’ve called upon a version of myself who became the Master of Death. You will share your secrets with me and do my bidding for as long as you walk this world. As the master of this ritual, it is within my power to bind you.” He expects another version of himself to react with anger. It is what he would do. But despite it all, he can’t bring himself to court the favor of a more successful version of himself. The fact that he is even here, all but begging for aid, already says too much. “Will you help me willingly or not?”

The figure’s shoulders move in a fluid shrug before he says, “Why are you all snakey? It’s not very attractive.”

It appears to be a serious question.

“I’m a Dark Lord. Looks mean nothing to me,” Voldemort tells him after a pause. It’s not quite true. Because of the ritual he’d chosen to resurrect himself, this is the only body he will ever inhabit unless he becomes a wraith again. It’s incredibly durable, scars and marks fading nearly instantly, but the same goes for charms and transfigurations. What, he wonders, does a successful version of himself look like? “Lower your hood.”

“Bossy of you,” the figure murmurs, but he does as Voldemort asks, revealing an instantly recognizable face. “See? At least _I_ have my nose.”

Voldemort grits his teeth and forces himself to ignore the taunt. Not even the Potter of his dimension would speak to him in that way. It’s galling, to hear the confidence in Potter’s voice as he delivers the insult, but Voldemort reminds himself that this is a version of himself, not Potter. This Potter body is older than the Potter in Voldemort’s dimension, in his twenties as opposed to an irritating seventeen year old. His scar is stark and red against too-pale skin, and his green eyes shine in the light of the moon. It’s strangely eerie in a way that Voldemort’s Potter would never be able to manage.

“How did you manage to take Potter’s body for yourself?” Voldemort asks, filled with nearly academic curiosity. He’s been able to overcome Potter’s blood protection, but possessing him during the hunt for the prophecy had failed. Potter’s magic simply wasn’t compatible with his to that extent.

“This has always been my body,” the figure says, then with a gust of wind, it disappears and appears outside of the cauldron. He is tall, though not nearly as tall as Voldemort, and the dark cloak covers every inch of him. “I treat mine well, actually. I even moisturize.”

“Pott—” Voldemort cuts himself off, because this is not Potter, no matter how irritating he is. This is a strange, very different version of himself, that is all. “Voldemort. Quit treating this like a game.”

“You were right the first time,” the figure tells him, a smile creeping onto his lips. He looks up and around, his bright green eyes taking in the location.

Voldemort wonders if he can get away with casting the Cruciatus on the Master of Death. Probably not. He itches to do it anyway. “I was very specific in my ritual. Whoever you think you are—you have the soul of Lord Voldemort. _Our_ soul, not Potter’s.”

The Master of Death’s cloak seems to fade into the darkness, almost as though it is made of something other than even the finest of silks, leaving his head and neck exposed. Voldemort can see the barest hints of his collarbones, the pale skin nearly gleaming. _I even moisturize, indeed_. The Master of Death reaches out to pet the smoky snake, which settles around his neck. “Well, you could say I am Voldemort, in a way. The only piece of him that remains is inside me. I consumed him years ago.”

Voldemort fights the sudden urge to step back. He hasn’t fled from an enemy in his life. He won’t start now. “You... consumed him?”

“Mm, yes,” the young man—no, creature, that must be it, some kind of human-shaped dementor—says. “We had some differences of opinion, so I ate his soul. It wasn’t the best idea; I had chest pains for nearly a month afterwards.” He looks Voldemort up and down, sighing. “You look tasty, but I’ll try to resist. And you’re maybe even cute. I’m still trying to decide if I’m weirdly attracted to you.”

“Enough of this.” Voldemort stalks forward until the two of them are only steps apart. “How did you become the Master of Death? Tell me now.”

Some of the humor fades from the Master of Death’s eyes as he gazes at Voldemort. “You don’t want to be me, not really. Immortality is kind of shitty once you actually have it.” A gust of wind, and he’s at the edge of the stone circle. “This place seems cool, but I’m not one for sightseeing. I’ll see you around, Voldemort.”

“I order you to stay.” It’s the only thing he can do. His wand is cold in his hands, sensing the presence of one whose claim supersedes Voldemort’s.

“Like I said,” the Master of Death says, slipping through the stones of Stonehenge. “Cute.”

And then he is gone, and Voldemort has released whatever he is into the world. With a crack of apparition, Voldemort is gone as well, off on a cat and mouse chase that he’d never intended to start.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://crownwithoutstones.tumblr.com/).


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